


Mastermind

by josephina_x



Series: Dimension 46’\-A [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Gen, One Year Later, Post-Series, Post-Weirdmageddon, See You Next Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 05:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12952251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephina_x/pseuds/josephina_x
Summary: Bill getting his ‘think’ on.





	Mastermind

**Author's Note:**

> Fic: Mastermind  
> Fandom: Gravity Falls  
> Pairing: n/a  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Spoilers: through the end of the series, and some of the books (Journal #3)  
> Summary: Bill getting his ‘think’ on.  
> Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.  
> AN: Yeah, I don’t even know anymore. Just roll with it?  
>   
>  _Author’s Note, 2018-Jul-29: This fic begins late morning of Day 11 of Bill Cipher’s return, shortly after the events of[Aggression](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928890). After dragging Ford back, and hearing an explosion outside the barrier and out in the forest, Stan goes outside after Bill. He’s worried enough that he doesn’t leave Ford’s gun behind; he’s worried that he might need it to shoot whatever must’ve been after Bill. He finds Bill all-in-one-piece -- and the monster in more pieces than he can count -- and brings Bill back to the (relative) safety of the Shack; they don’t run into Ford on the way. Stan is pretty sure that his brother is probably sulking in the basement after having been pulled off of Bill not ten minutes prior, or at least a little cautious after his warning about Bill’s magic, but he takes the long way around in getting back to the Shack just in case. No point in getting into stupid arguments with his brother if he doesn’t have to. Stan leaves Bill out on the porch, and goes inside to “hide” Ford’s gun in one of the kitchen cabinets, and to give Dipper and Mabel a crash course in the agreement, because apparently he _ does _need to go through this with them sooner rather than later._

\---

Bill grumbled to himself as he sat on the floor of the back porch of the Shack, back against the outer wall and arms crossed.

“‘Don’t go blowing up ‘ _bears_ ’, Bill,’” he mocked in a sing-song manner under his breath, “‘You might worry _Ford_ ’. Axolotl forbid I manage not to get myself _eaten_ in the process,” he growled out, feeling his lips pull away from his teeth, “--because I smell _human_.” He kicked out a leg against the floorboards and didn’t care how petulant he sounded, or who heard him. _If_ anyone heard him.

As far as he could tell, not that that was saying much at the moment -- he was out on the porch alone, with no-one nearby. Did the Pines really trust him that much? The idiots.

“Probably think I’m all _tame_ now, just because I’m anchored down,” he muttered to himself even though he knew that wasn’t true, as he scratched at the top of the stupid thing at the back of his neck. He doubted Stanley had said anything to any of the rest of them earlier about their shared symbol, but he couldn’t imagine that Pine Tree hadn’t blurted out everything to them all by now, about what Bill had emblazoned all down his back, not after having caught him in the shower like that. And with that out in the open, Ford certainly would’ve been _happy_ to have laughingly informed them all of exactly what he _thought_ it meant. No, Bill was not _tame_ , no -- not even a little! -- but…

It could really be any number of things, Bill knew. He’d been around the block a great many more times than one Stanford “Sixer” Pines! But. Almost all of those things were potentially more than a little embarrassing to have had happen to him, for someone like him to be caught up in, though.

Ford hadn’t tried gloating at him about it yet, but when he did…

...and Bill just _knew_ he would try to, sooner or later…

Bill’s eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched.

Stanley didn’t think he was tame, though; Stanley _respected_ him. Respected _and feared_ him. ...Well, except when he _didn’t_. The whole situation with Stanley had been going on for only eleven days so far, and it already would have driven him insane by now, except for that fact he was insane already. ...Driven him _more_ insane? After awhile, it made no sense to try and keep track of it anymore. Sliding scales after a trillion years of sliding tended to look a lot more like _infinite lines_ than anything more limited.

Bill let out a breath in frustration.

 _Stanley_ still insisted on claiming out loud that Bill wasn’t who he knew he was. Instead, he claimed that Bill could be ( _and probably was(?!?!)_ ) just some kid who had been brainwashed by cultists and had had ‘Bill Cipher’s memories inserted into his skull, somehow, through some crazy ritual. Because with his petrified body ‘missing’, and none of the Pines having actually seen him transform…

Bill grimaced.

It was _obvious_ that that hadn’t been -- _couldn’t_ have been -- the case, and yet Stanley perversely persisted on claiming such to all and sundry, calling him a ‘kid’ and treating him like one the vast majority of the time (...at least as far as Bill could tell, human social customs not exactly being a strength of his).

The only real benefit he’d been able to see out of the whole situation for him was this: being ‘a kid’ in Stanley’s eyes apparently meant that he could ask Stanley any question, and the man would actually try to answer it, straightforwardly and being up-front about it, with every question that he asked. And as far as Bill could tell, the con-man was actually being truthful with him, consistently, about everything but this one subject.

There was apparently no expectation of the same level of openness and honesty from Bill in return for this, either, which made no sense to him whatsoever.

Stanley was refusing to deal with him. -- _Make deals_ with him, rather. Nothing was even, or fair, or anything close to balanced in any way. It was honestly starting to make Bill feel a tad paranoid in the karmic retribution department, because he really wasn’t used to getting things for… _free_. He didn’t actually know all the rules -- what rules there were for ‘dream demons’ like him -- about taking in this sort of… handout. It had never come up before.

Stanley insisted that he owed this to Bill, though, or that Bill deserved it? ...that Bill didn’t deserve _not_ to have all these things Stanley kept giving him? -- _Something_ like that, anyway. Bill wasn’t too clear on that part. The concept had been confused. And confusing. Apparently, as he’d been told after waking up in bed that first afternoon and promptly handed a box of crackers to eat and a glass of lemonade to drink, ‘kids his age’ were supposed to be _entitled_ to food, clothing, shelter, and schooling, among other things -- and none of these ‘basic things’ were in any way contingent upon his good behavior, Stanley had informed him outright. But Bill knew _that_ wasn’t the case in the slightest -- there were plenty of kids at a physical body-age of seventeen who didn’t receive such things for one reason or another, and Stanley Pines had been one of them -- Bill had _seen_ it.

Anyway, being a ‘kid his age’ apparently ‘entitled’ him to food he could eat and beverages he could drink -- as much as he wanted, not just needed, to become and stay healthy. It ‘entitled’ him to comfortable clothing and footwear that fit him and kept him as warm or cold as he needed to be in order to stay well. It ‘entitled’ him to learning whatever he wished, about whatever he wished, to asking any question of Stanley behind closed doors and having it answered to the best of Stanley’s ability. It ‘entitled’ him to not just a room at the Shack to sleep in that would insulate his body from the elements and general environment, but also a limited promise of safety on the grounds and premises so long as he was not the one to attack first. So long as he kept to that, Stanley would apparently back him up, even if it was _Sixer_ he was up against.

Bill pulled his knees up closer to his chest. He hadn’t believed the last one at all until that afternoon. He’d been dodging about, and waiting, just _waiting_ for Stanley to show up and take his brother’s side -- because _of course he would_ , why _wouldn’t_ he?!

… and instead, when Stanley had caught up to them in the woods, he’d smacked Sixer upside the head and _made him stop_. Read Sixer the riot act and dragged him off, back to the Shack. Leaving Bill to his own devices.

Bill let out a shuddering breath and put his head down on his knees.

Food, clothing, and shelter. Bill could have obtained those three for himself, using what limited powers and vast knowledge he still had left available to him. Having his questions answered, and truthfully, though… that he considered to be priceless.

But now, it felt as though the ground of the playing field had shifted under his feet again, because Bill had rather assumed that Stanley had wanted that mutual nonaggression agreement so that he and the rest of the Pines would have the chance at a first-strike against Bill without need for subterfuge, when the time came. He’d been absolutely certain of it -- heck, he’d been _counting_ on it. But _now_...

Bill felt uneasy. _This was too much._

...And, worse, what if he started to _depend_ on it, Stanley’s support? That would _cripple_ him.

Bill liked the idea of being able to depend on someone for _some_ things, small things, for short set periods of time, but not to such a degree. Not without a clear understanding of the costs. Not without some mutual need being met by each individual in such an agreement. Because without leverage…

Stanley had seemed to understand the concept, when Bill had brought it up. Bill had explained it in the terms of the kill-or-be-killed-and-eaten every-demon-for-himself mentality of the Nightmare Realm, rules which he had admittedly twisted and subverted somewhat by forming, maintaining, and ruling over the gang of interdimensional criminals and nightmares that he called friends. Stanley had repeated it back to Bill in his own words to show that he’d understood it, restated it all in the context of his own experiences with crime bosses, the Columbian mob, and their thinkers and bruisers, well enough.

But then Stanley had rejected it all, said it didn’t apply under these circumstances. It had left Bill at a loss.

The kicker was that, on top of all this, Stanley seemed to be a master of respectful disrespect.

...or disrespectful respect. One of the two. The fact that Bill couldn’t tell which was likely telling, in and of itself.

Stanley insisted on claiming that Bill wasn’t who he knew he was -- that Bill wasn’t actually Bill Cipher -- this despite the fact that they _both_ knew exactly who he was, Bill was almost entirely certain. Stanley’s first pronouncement of this -- and every time after -- had left Bill dealing with the highly-irrational urge to _prove himself_ to the man, though, to show him beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was absolutely mistaken and _make_ him **admit it** \--

\--and as far as Bill had been able to tell after almost a week of this madness, that might rather be the point of Stan’s whole endeavor. After all, if he was too busy trying to prove he was Bill Cipher to Stanley in the first place, before all else, he presumably would be too busy and distracted by this to be spending that time on other endeavors, completing much more useful tasks that would actually be furthering his own true aims towards his ultimate goal: killing the Axolotl and replacing it with himself.

Late morning of the second day, after having stewed for the rest of the evening and most of the night prior on the problem of trying to convince Stanley otherwise, Bill had escaped ‘his room’ in the Shack (shared with Stanley), attempted to step outside the dividing line where he knew the mystical barrier of the Shack ended…

...and had found to his rather pleased surprise that he wasn’t physically stuck inside the barrier after all.

He’d also felt an inrush of power as the weirdness of the Falls that the barrier had been keeping out now pushed in on him.

It hadn’t been much -- his innate powers were still locked down almost completely -- but his magical senses had woken up with a vengeance that had left him half-breathless.

He’d been grinning when Stan Pines had walked out of the Shack and saw him, feeling light as a feather and ready to kick ass and take names -- he’d been perfectly ready to show Stanley Pines _exactly_ how wrong he’d been about him--

And Stanley had proceeded to prevent him from actually completing a single misbegotten spell. Every. single. time.

Stanley hadn’t even tried to suppress any of them through the anchor that they shared -- he’d just stepped forward and scuffed out the line of the magic circle Bill had drawn out on the ground. Or interrupted his incantations by nearly shoving him over. Or poking him. Or -- and he cursed Shooting Star and Pine Tree for this, he really did -- _tickling_ him when he didn’t break off trying to cast his latest incant quickly enough to successfully dodge him.

The _only_ thing he’d gotten out of the hour-long session that might well have classified as torture of some sort, had been that it was an absolute necessity for him to scour his mentality and memories for a good solid handful of spells that _didn’t_ require a triangle or a circle or any other shape to be drawn on the ground, and _didn’t_ take more than a second to incant with voice and gesture; preferably shorter.

Stanley had consistently made a mockery of him for that entire hour. And yet, he hadn’t disrespected him; rather the opposite: he’d taken Bill deathly seriously. He hadn’t laughed off that Bill might be able to do magic and walked away; he’d stayed there while Bill had set up, watched him like a hawk the entire time, and laughed at him _while_ actively preventing him from completing any of his spells. And Stanley had talked a lot of trash while Bill had been trying to cast spells, sure, but actions spoke louder than words, because as much as Stanley had taunted him about the usefulness of his spells -- or lack thereof -- he had made absolutely certain that he never let Bill pull off a spell for the entire duration of the ‘test’ for a reason. And the ‘usefulness’ that he’d been trash-talking hadn’t had anything to do with the spell effects, per se -- rather, they’d had everything to do with how long it would and did take to cast them, and how utterly worthless they were if and because he couldn’t.

That spoke of the utmost respect for his abilities, sight-unseen, and a fear of what Bill might accomplish if allowed free- and full-rein without his power and magic in check.

It had also been a warning, Bill realized in retrospect, and... a _help_ , he realized, raising his head and straightening in place, because if he _hadn’t_ been spending a great deal of time wracking his memories for quick-cast spells that he could toss off at a moment’s notice each and every day since…

...then what would have happened with that ‘bear’?

...which Bill had only run into because Stanley hadn’t dragged him back into the house along with them after Ford had chased him farther into the woods.

...which Bill would not have ended up stalking off into in the first place if he hadn’t gotten into that fight with the two younger twins.

...which had only happened because Stanley had _not_ shot down Shooting Star immediately when she had first brought up the idea of an outside bath for Bill in the kitchen of the Shack, letting it go forward in the first place.

In fact, now that Bill thought about it, Stanley had in fact only encouraged her by putting certain specific limited boundaries on what was acceptable and what was not, all without outright warning Shooting Star not to do exactly what she’d done to him with that water hose…

Which had started the fight…

Which had led to…

Which had had him…

And then...

Bill stared out at the treeline from the safety of the porch, inside the barrier, and he swallowed, hard.

And he thought, ‘ _Stanley couldn’t possibly have planned that all out from the start… could he?_ ’

\---

**Author's Note:**

> AN2: Yeahhhhh… in case anybody is wondering why Dipper and Mabel aren’t all that worried about Bill nearly as much as they maybe should be? Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy all wandered out at one point or another to watch the Bill vs. Stanley magic-matchup. Kind of hard to be that worried about the dream demon doing something terrible to you when you’ve just got done watching said dream demon wipe out into the dirt face-first in exhaustion, petulantly cursing breathlessly in some alien language, after watching your Grunkle chase him around the yard (and watch him yell and try to run _away_ from your Grunkle because he can’t fight worth a handful of jellybeans in a physical way) for a solid hour straight. And that’s not counting the number of times you’ve just watched your Grunkle basically tackle and _tickle_ him into submission, more times than you can count (you ran out of jellybeans awhile ago). And, y’know, being more than smart enough to realize that you now having a very practical primer in-hand for how to deal with said dream demon if and when ever he tries something next, that basically involves the simple expedient measure of getting in close enough to interrupt him... and then you’re set. Dipper has his choice of K.O. by tickle, poke, or punch to the gut. In Mabel’s rarified case, it’s a grappling hook to the gut or head. Wendy’s got her axe, her feet, and her fists. They’re all good.


End file.
